SHMILY...

Love Can Last Forever

My grandparents were married for over half a century, and they had their own special game they played, beginning on the day they first fell in love.

The object of their game was for each to write the word "shmily" in a surprise place for the other to find.

They took turns leaving "shmily" all around the house and, as soon as one of them discovered it, it was then the other's turn to hide it once more.

They dragged "shmily" with their fingers through the sugar and flour containers to await whoever was preparing the next meal.  They wrote it in the dew on the windows overlooking the patio, where grandma always fed us warm, homemade pudding.

"Shmily" was written in the steam left on the mirror, after a hot shower, where it would reappear time and again after each bath. At one point, grandma even unrolled an entire roll of toilet paper to leave "shmily" on the very last sheet for grandpa to find.

There was no end to the places "shmily" would pop up. Little notes with "shmily" scribbled on them were found on the dashboard in the car, on car seats, or taped to the steering wheel. The notes were stuffed inside shoes, in bureau drawers, and left under pillows on the bed.

"Shmily" was written in the dust on the mantel and traced in the ashes of the fireplace. This mysterious word was as much a part of my grandparents' house as was the furniture.

It took me a long time before I was able to fully appreciate my grandparents' game. Skepticism long kept me from believing in true love, one that is pure and enduring; however, I never doubted my grandparents' relationship. They had somehow gotten love down pat. 

But it was more than a flirtatious little game to them -- it was their whole way of life. Their relationship was based on devotion and passionate affection, which not everyone is lucky enough to ever experience.

Grandma and grandpa held hands every chance they got. They stole kisses as they bumped into each other in their tiny kitchen. If one of them passed by the other's chair, they would pat them gently on the shoulder.  They finished each other's sentences, and shared the daily crossword puzzle. 

My grandma once whispered to me how cute my grandpa was, how handsome he had grown to be. She claimed that she really knew "how to pick 'em." Before every meal, they bowed their heads and gave thanks, marveling at their blessings: a wonderful family, good fortune, and of course, each other.

But there was a dark cloud in my grandparents' life.  My grandmother had breast cancer. The disease had first appeared ten years earlier. As always, grandpa was with her every step of the way. He comforted her in their yellow room, painted that way so she could always be surrounded by sunshine, even when she was too sick to go outside. 

Now the cancer was again attacking her body. With the help of a cane, and grandpa's steady hand, they went to church every morning.

Grandma grew steadily weaker, until finally, she could not leave the house anymore. For awhile, grandpa would go to church alone, praying to God to watch over his wife. Then one day, what we all dreaded finally happened. Grandma passed away.

"Shmily" was scrawled in pink on the yellow ribbons of my grandma's funeral bouquet. As the crowd thinned and the last mourners turned to leave, my aunts, uncles, cousins and other family members came forward and gathered around my grandma one last time.

Grandpa stepped up to grandma's casket and, taking a shaky breath, he began to sing to her. Through his tears and grief the song came, a deep and throaty lullaby. 

Shaking with my own sorrow, I will never forget that moment. For I knew that, although I couldn't begin to fathom the depth of their love, I had been privileged to witness its unmatched beauty:

S-h-m-i-l-y:  "See How Much I Love You."

[Author Unknown]

"A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write." ~CJ Heck

Humor: Hair Wax ...

Hmmm ... I wonder

I have no idea who wrote this, but it's priceless ...

Hair Wax ...

My night began as any other normal week night...

I came home, fixed dinner, played with the kids ... I then had the brilliant thought that would ring painfully in my mind for the next few hours: 

I thought, "Maybe I should pull the waxing kit out of the medicine cabinet."

So I headed to the site of my demise -- the bathroom.

It was one of those 'cold wax' kits. No melting a clump of hot wax.  The directions said to rub the strips together in your hand until they got warm and then peel them apart, press them to your leg (or wherever else) and you just pull the hair right off. No muss, no fuss.

How hard could it be? I mean, I was no genius, but I was mechanically inclined enough to figure it out. (YA THINK!?!)

So I pulled one of the thin strips out of the box -- there were actually two strips facing each other and they were stuck together. Instead of just rubbing them together, my genius kicked in ... I decided I knew what would work faster, so I got out the hair dryer and heated it to 1000 degrees. Cold wax, yeah...right.

I laid the strip across my thigh, held the skin around it tight, and pulled. Hey, it works! OK, so it wasn't the best feeling in the world, but it wasn't THAT bad. I could do this! Hair removal no longer eluded ME!

I thought, "I am She-Rah, fighter of all wayward body hair and maker of smooth skin extraordinaire!"

So, with my next wax strip, I confidently moved north. After checking on the kids, I sneaked back to the bathroom for the ultimate hair fighting championship. I dropped my panties and placed one foot on the toilet.

Using the same procedure, I applied the wax strip across the right side of my bikini line, covered the right half of my hoo-ha, and stretched it down to the inside of my butt cheek (it was a long strip).  I inhaled deeply and braced myself...RRRRIIIIPPPP!

Oh My Gawd ...

I thought, "I'm blind!  I'm totally blind from the pain!....OH MY GAWD!"

My vision slowly returned and I noticed that I had only managed to pull off half the strip. CRAP! I took another deep breath and RIP! Now everything was spinning and my vision was spotted.

I thought I would pass out.....I had to stay conscious...I HAD to stay conscious. Did I hear crashing drums?  Breathe, breathe...OK, it was (almost) back to normal.

I wanted to see my trophy -- a wax covered strip, the one that had caused me so much pain, with my hairy pelt sticking to it. I wanted to revel in the glory that was my triumph over body hair.

I held up the strip, but there was no hair on it. Matter of fact, there was nothing on the strip at all.

Where was the hair? WHERE THE HELL WAS THE WAX?

Slowly, I eased my head downward for a peek, with my foot still perched on the toilet. I saw the hair. The hair that was supposed to be on the strip was not! I hesitantly touched. What I was touching WAS wax!

I ran my fingers over the most sensitive part of my body, which was now covered in cold wax and matted hair. Then I made the next BIG mistake... remember, my foot was still propped on the toilet, right? Well, I knew I needed to do SOMEthing. So I put my foot down.

No! No! NOOO!  Oh My GAWD!  I was sealed shut!  My butt was sealed shut. Oh Sweet Lord, my friggin' butt was sealed shut!

I penguin-walked around the bathroom trying to figure out what to do and I thought to myself, 'Please, God, don't let me get the urge to poop... my head may pop off!' 

What could I do to melt the wax?

Hot water!  Yesss!  Hot water melts wax! I thought, "I will run the hottest water I can stand into the bathtub, get in, and immerse the wax-covered parts. The wax should melt and then I can gently wipe it off ... right?"

WRONG!

I got in the tub.  The water was slightly hotter than what they used to torture prisoners of war, or sterilize surgical equipment -- but frantic, I sat down.

Now, the only thing worse than having your nether regions glued together, is having them glued together AND glued to the bottom of a bathtub in scalding hot water, which, by the way, does NOT melt cold wax.

Oh Noooo, now what?

So, (picture this) I was stuck to the bottom of the tub as though I had cemented myself to the porcelain!

God bless the man who convinced me a few months ago to have a phone installed in the bathroom!

I called my friend, thinking surely she had waxed before and had some secret of how to get me undone. It was a very good conversation starter.

"...so Sally, my butt and hoo-ha are glued together to the bottom of the tub. Tell me what to do to undo it."

There was a slight pause on the other end of the phone. She didn't know any secret tricks for wax removal, but she did try to hide her laughter from me. She wanted to know EXACTLY where the wax was located. 

"Are we talking cheeks, or hoo-ha?"

I gave her the rundown. She was laughing out loud -- I could hear her. She suggested between guffaws that I call the number on the side of the box. YEAH, Right!  So I would be the joke of someone else's night, too?

While we went through various solutions, I resorted to trying to scrape the wax off with a razor. Listen to me, nothing feels better than to have your girlie goodies covered in hot wax, glued shut, stuck to the bottom of the bathtub in super hot water and then dry-shaving the sticky wax off!

By that time my brain was not working, dignity had taken a major hike, and I was pretty sure I was going to need Post-Traumatic Stress counseling because of it.

My friend was still talking when I finally saw my saving grace....there in the box was a tiny tube of lotion they gave you to remove excess wax. What did I have to lose at that point?

I rubbed some on and OH MY GOD!  The scream probably woke the kids and scared the dickens out of my friend. It was sooo painful, but I really didn't care. IT WORKED!  It worked!  I got a hearty congratulations from my friend and she hung up.

I successfully removed the remainder of the wax and then noticed to my grief and despair... THE HAIR WAS STILL THERE -- ALL OF IT.  So, I recklessly shaved it off.

Hell, I was numb by that time. Nothing hurt. I could have amputated my own leg at that point.

Next week I'm going to try hair color......

[Author Unknown]


“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Kid Humor at Author School Visits

School Visit in Ohio

I've done my share of school visits since my first book was published in June of 2000.

I was thinking this morning about the funny things children have said, or asked me, during some of those school presentations.

They're just too cute not to share some of them with you ...

"Can I call you Miss CJ?  I don't think my mom would let me say your last name.  It's a bad word, right?"

"My teacher told us we had to guess what C.J. stands for, before you came today -- only she didn't tell us if you were a boy, or a girl, so I guessed it was Carl Jim.  Sorry."

(wildly waving hand in the air, when I asked if anyone had a question at the end of a presentation) "I do, I do!  Where did you buy your boots?"

"Can I come to your house?"

"You write about stuff kids think about.  How old ARE you?   I mean really?"

No, dont!

"I love your poem, Barking Spiders.  My dad will laugh when I tell him about that.  He always tells me to pull his finger and then he farts and laughs, but he says it was an invisible elephant that did it."

"Did your dad really tell you the stuff between your toes is toe jam?  I would never put that on my peanut butter sandwich either ..."

"Do you have a poem about a mom sitting in the toilet 'cause the dad left the seat up?  My mom always does that and then she yells."

"I love your books.  Do you like being rich?"  (ahhhh, the naivete of a child ...I wish)

"I want to write books, too, but my sister says my writing stinks."

"I forgot to bring my paper.  Can you sign my shirt?"

First Lost Tooth

(take a deep breath before trying to say this one ...) "You know your poem about a tooth?  Well, I lost my tooth one day and mom had to write a note to the tooth fairy because I swallowed my tooth and I couldn't put it under my pillow and I didn't think the tooth fairy would come and leave me any money and I cried, but you know what?  She did!  So, I'm not going lose any more teeth 'cause I might swallow those too."

And my favorite ...

"Yeah, I have a question!  (pointing)  See that guy over there, the one in the blue shirt, by my mom?  (proudly)  He's my dad.  That was him laughing when you read the poem about your brother's stinky feet.  That's 'cause mom says his feet smell like he stepped in dog poop."  (oh dear, poor dad ...)


“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Miss Amy's Story Time at the Library

A Library is Full of Books and Adventures

I get all warm and fuzzy when I'm in a book store, or a library these days.

For me, it began a long time ago, when mama took us to the children's room of the Coshocton Public Library for the Saturday morning book readings by Miss Amy.

I remember feeling the anticipation start to build, the moment Mama opened the heavy oak door and herded all of us into the enormous entrance lobby.

In my imagination, this was a revered ceremony.  The opening of the huge door was our grand entrance to a castle of suspense and mystery, and we held the keys to its treasure, the books themselves.

The last and most sacred part of the ceremony was when Mama finally cautioned, "Shhh, remember, only our quiet voices, please." 

With each step up to the main room, past the formidable librarian at her desk, there was even more expectation, as I tried to envision what adventure Miss Amy would take us on that morning.

Walking through the library, the towering shelves rose to the ceiling on either side of me. Rows and rows of books were visible in every direction I turned and the vision always filled me with awe and wonder. Stories and adventures were everywhere, and I wanted to hear them all!

In the children's book room, Miss Amy sat, waiting, in her usual rocking chair. The chosen book was in her lap and her hands rested upon it, as she waited for the oval rug in front of her to fill with children. I sat quietly, struggling hard to contain my excitement.

Miss Amy's Story Time

What book had she chosen to read? Where would this new adventure take me? Would it be sad, or funny, or maybe even filled with ... DANGER?

I knew it didn't really matter.  I would ride on Miss Amy's words to anywhere and everywhere the author took me, until the very last page.

Then suddenly, it was time. Miss Amy welcomed us to Story Time, watching our eager faces, as she slowly opened the book to the first page.

With the very first sentence, I was captured.  As the magic unfolded, I was no longer me, sitting on a rug in the children's room of the public library. I was inside the book, living through her words, and transported to another time and place.

That's when I knew ... I wanted to be an author and write books.

Realizing my Dream

In June of 2000, I finally realized that dream.  But I still remember the wonder and awe I found as a child, every time I'm in a library, or bookstore.  (And it's always special, when some of the books I'm surrounded by are mine).

Now I know the joy Miss Amy felt, while doing her Story Time readings. I've grown addicted to seeing that same magic in the faces of children when I do a school visit, as they live within my words.



“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Short Story: The Unopened Letter

Table in the Foyer

"What do you do when the only one who can make you stop crying is the one who is making you cry?" --Anonymous

The Unopened Letter

by CJ Heck

The letter came on Monday, over a week ago. Maggie had been absently wading through the morning's harvest of mail, as usual, on her lunch hour.

Predictably, it reaped the usual bills, flyers, and grocery store ads.  Suddenly she spotted the familiar masculine scrawl. Maggie was stunned.

After years of checking the mail, here was (just maybe) a pearl among the cow pies.

She marveled at how the letter felt as she held it in her hand and then wiped at a tear that was threatening a slow getaway down her cheek.

The letter sat on the cherry table in the foyer for nearly a week, mutely resting between the potted ivy and car keys, marking time, waiting for her.

It remained unopened, of course, but Maggie didn't need to open it. She already knew what it said. She just couldn't make herself open it and read the words. She knew they were angry -- that was a given.  She also knew they were probably written to demand, in yet one more way, her whole future and one more chance.  Frankly, she was flat out of last chances.

Maggie tried so many times to tell Jonathan he needed help. Abuse was abuse. It didn't matter whether it was emotional, physical, psychological, sexual or verbal (he had been proficient in all of them), he had hurt her and it had been unnecessary.

She had loved him, but she also loved herself and valued her safety even more -- and now this letter. Well, it's too late, she argued. By moving away, she was finally free and that's the way it's going to stay, she thought -- and now this damned letter! Then again, what if he wrote to tell me he got help and therapy?

Maggie walked through the foyer a thousand times and stared at the letter. She even picked it up and held it close to her heart once, as if her heart could tell by sheer divination that the words didn't say what she knew they did.

She thought, maybe if don't read it, the words will somehow change and say what I need to hear, but then, Jonathan was never into apologies, or admissions of wrongdoing, or forgiveness either, for that matter. "Damn it to hell and back, what a sorrowful waste of a stamp!" Maggie shouted into the empty foyer, creating an eerie echo.

For a solid week, even Maggie's nights were plagued by the letter -- open it, don't open it, open it, don't open it.

By the following Wednesday, Maggie had had enough. She marched angrily into the foyer and grabbed the offensive letter. She folded it in half, then quartered it, and finally, she stuffed it roughly into the back pocket of her blue jeans.

Ha! There! Now it would be safe from misbehaving hands and with it out of sight, her mind wouldn't be tempted to breach its ceremonial rule and grant her permission to touch, or want to open it.

Within a few hours, Maggie found herself in a quandary. She was unable to ignore the letter, or throw it away. She wasn't sure how long she walked around with it in her back pocket. She only knew it began to burn her heart, blister her mind, and then it slowly started to scorch her self-control.

But it wasn't until she saw her jeans in the washer, twisting and turning in the soapy water, letter and all, that she was even aware of what she'd done -- unconsciously cleansing and purging the past.

It really was the only way ... maybe now, she would find some peace at last.


[from the book, "Bits and Pieces from a Writer's Soul", by CJ Heck]


“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Happy Birthday, America!

“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Short Story: "Yardsticks"

"Yardsticks" of Life

by CJ Heck

It was late autumn, but a day still warm enough to make Kathryn sweat and she smiled, remembering her mother's words. "Always remember, Kathryn, ladies never sweat, they perspire."

The salty air wafting over the water felt good as it teased the corners of the tablecloth up and out, like checkered wings. It also mercifully cooled the, (ahem), per-spi-ra-tion that had glued wisps of hair to her forehead.

From somewhere nearby, cicadas in love were calling each other in the trees. Their haunting chirp mixed curiously with the waves, the soft clinking of silverware, and the distant laughter of children playing in the dwindling daylight on the beach below.

Kathryn was celebrating her last full day of vacation with a hot fudge sundae. Both were few and far between and justly savored -- the vacation, day by lazy day, and the sundae, spoonful by decadent spoonful.

The best hot fudge sundae she had ever eaten had been in San Francisco, down near the water at the Chocolate Manufactory in Ghirradelli Square. That had been back in the early seventies, now nearly a lifetime ago, she thought, with a sigh.

Through the ensuing years, whenever she allowed herself this treasure, a comparison took place in her mind. Each hot fudge sundae from a new place was measured against The Ghirradelli Square Yardstick.

Of course, there were very few of these indulgences -- she wanted to maintain her figure, but the time between them built up a delightful anticipation, which made the stretches between easier to handle. Funny, until now, she hadn’t realized just how many of these invisible yardsticks she actually carried around with her.

Katheryn had just turned fifty-nine. Admittedly, she had arrived at that age kicking and screaming -- after all, no one ever consciously decides to be middle aged. Ultimately, thoughts of the alternative to getting older washed over her and, with a feeling of resignation, she bathed in all the positives of actually being allowed to live that long.

Kathryn had a sudden epiphany. She just realized that she even looked at other women around her who were her age, or near it, with yet another invisible "yardstick".

While never model-beautiful, she supposed she could have been considered a striking woman. She still had her figure and she worked hard to keep it, although admittedly, gravity was beginning to coax some things a little lower ...

Her hair had recently begun to silver at the temples with a few others twinkling here and there, as if in afterthought. She smiled, deciding that the total effect could be considered attractive. Besides, she felt she had earned the silver -- after all, she was a grandmother several times over.

Kathryn still noticed, and secretly welcomed, when a masculine head turned in her direction for a second look. She wasn't aware, (and would have denied it had she been told), that their attraction to her came from a puzzling enigma, one that only surrounded her in public -- she seemed mysterious.

Her child-like naiveté contradicted the sensual, at times even haughty, self-assurance she exuded in her walk and manner. However, if you were to ask Kathryn, she would tell you she was merely aloof.

Men thought, now here was a woman who drew your attention. She could walk into a room and own the room. Here was a confident woman who looked comfortable in her clothes -- and a woman they enjoyed imagining even more comfortable out of them, thus, the enigma.

Kathryn wasn’t aware of those things. What she did know was, the heads that turned in her direction were divinely better than looking in a mirror -- and more flattering, too.

Kathryn leaned back in her chair, not wanting this last vacation day to end. The sea breeze still felt wonderful. Maybe she would sit here just a little while longer.

The sun was making its descent into the distant trees and she was suddenly struck by the silence. When had that happened? The laughter of the children, even the drone of the cicadas, had disappeared sometime during the reverie about her various yardsticks.

Comparing hot fudge sundaes, or other women her age, was one thing, but she felt guilty, when her mind eased on over to compare the men she had known in her life. She knew she shouldn’t -- each deserved to be separate and unique -- still, she rationalized, everyone did it and she couldn’t help doing it either.

It wasn’t that she had a huge number of men to compare.  She didn’t, but she felt safe saying that the ones who had been in her life, had been there for a damn good reason.

It took years, but she eventually came to see that each had played a specific part in who she now was. Each unknowingly brought a valuable lesson, or lessons, that she was to learn. After all, aren’t we all products of our environment? Everything that happens to us changes us, making us who we were destined to become.

No, she decided.  She would save her yardsticks to think about at another time. God knows, there were many nights when sleep wouldn't allow her in.  That's when she should think about her silly yardstick comparisons about life.

With that decided, Kathryn stood and adjusted her skirt. Then she lifted her chin for maximum effect and walked proudly and confidently to her car.



“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Playing "Mind Candy"

Try it, it works!

Like most writers and authors, I often hear this question: 

 "Where do your ideas and inspirations come from?"  

For inspiration, I've always found it easier to write about what I know.  

When I'm writing for children, I think of my childhood or my children and grandchildren, and even students from school visits. 

Then, to remind myself of "what I know", so I can start writing, I play a mental game that I call "Mind Candy".  

How to Play Mind Candy:

Take a pencil and paper and make five headings: the five senses. Then list what you like about each of them under its heading.  

When you have several in each column, draw a line across the paper and, under that, list what you dislike about each of them.

The list should be very literal. What tastes, feels, smells, sounds, or looks good, or bad? 

By the time I'm finished with my lists, I usually have several ideas and I can begin to write.

Touch:

What feels good?

kitten fur; sun on face; velvet; a hug

What feels bad?

mosquito bite (itchy); tangles in my hair; a headache

Smell:

What smells good?

flowers; perfume; gasoline; cookies baking

What smells bad?

skunk; feet; broccoli; Swiss cheese

Sound:

What is a good sound?

music; a waterfall; the recess bell; wind chimes

What sounds bad?

fingernails on a chalkboard; baby crying; a bear growling from behind you

Taste:

What tastes good?

warm cookies; popcorn; hot chocolate; bubble gum

What tastes bad?

medicine; liver; vinegar; sucking on a lemon

Sight:

What do you like to see?

rainbow; sunrise; sunset; hot air balloon

What do you not like to see?

spiders; a shark fin when you're in the ocean; a house on fire; blood

[You can also use feelings. What feelings make you feel good, or bad?]

Okay, that's how to play "Mind Candy".  Where do your ideas come from for writing?  

“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck